Free Identity Thief by JP Bloch Page A

that’s why some people are called losers.
    Sequoia drove like she was taking a driving test. No speeding past amber warning lights for her. At stop signs, she came to a full stop, looking both ways even at four-way stops. The radio very softly played harmless, light pop rock. Still, the ride was an opportunity for her to supposedly learn more about me—where I supposedly did my graduate work, supposedly how I got married—and also for me to find out more about her.
    “I was an orphan,” she said, pleasantly humming along to the innocuous music. “My parents died when I was nine.”
    I stroked her knee for want of knowing what else to do.
    She stopped at a light about to turn red. In the side mirror, I could see the driver behind us swearing at her.
    “I was an only child. I moved in with my aunt and uncle. They had no other children. So they adopted me, and yes, they loved me like their own. I’m sorry if I sound impatient. It’s nothing personal, Jesse. Please understand. I’ve been telling this story all my life, and . . . I don’t know, with you, I want to keep things happy. My birth parents would want it, too. People treat me like damaged goods, and I’m tired of it.”
    “May I ask how they . . . uh, died?”
    “There was a fire.”
    I could see the question made her uncomfortable—even a little impatient, after telling me why she didn’t want to go into details. Well, there was plenty of time to talk about the past. And she certainly was more forthcoming than I’d been. “So do you work?” I asked, changing the subject.
    “I’m very fortunate. I have a trust fund that my parents set up for me. But I like working with kids. I volunteer at the city children’s art center a few days a week.”
    “That must be fun.”
    When she turned on her blinker and looked in the rearview mirror to change lanes, her concentration made you think she was flying a space shuttle. “It’s very challenging. Kids in the twenty-first century. It’s all video games and special effects. It’s hard to interest them in the idea that they can draw a picture themselves. The kids I work with have all been labeled slow, or ADD. A couple of Asperger’s. A lot of them come from—you know, not very nice families.”
    “I see,” I offered sympathetically. “You must be a patient person. Patient and giving.”
    Sequoia was distracted, though. “A parking place! Have I died and gone to heaven?”
    We parked in front of a building that was a plain, five-story rectangle; I was seeing that Sequoia disliked anything fussy. Still, it was in an upscale neighborhood. It also was in the dead center of the city, and as my mom seldom left the suburban tranquility of her condo, it was unlikely she’d bump into me. She lived about a half hour away, but it might as well have been on the moon.
    As Sequoia got her mail in the lobby, I noticed that her name was not on her mailbox in the foyer. “Is that on purpose?” I asked. “You know, keeping your name off the mailbox?” In a fit of protectiveness, I wanted to lecture her on identity theft, of all things.
    Sequoia sighed, sorting through what appeared to be a typical day’s assortment of bills and junk mail. “Reporters. To this day, they hound me.” She paused at an envelope.
    I saw that Sequoia’s name and address were handwritten, though there was no return address.
    “Oh, no,” she said. “Not again.”
    My slightly sinking feeling at the thought of getting within a million miles of a reporter gave way to concern. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    She flashed her beautiful smile. “Nothing. An old nuisance, that’s all. Go ahead and look around,” she said, as we entered her apartment. “I trust you. I need to finish reading my mail.”
    The apartment featured white walls with black furniture that had white accents or black walls with white furniture that had black accents. I’m no interior designer, but I couldn’t help noticing the complete absence of colors.